


A Fascinating Dance

by Miscellaneous_Subtext



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-06
Updated: 2012-05-06
Packaged: 2017-11-04 22:24:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/398867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miscellaneous_Subtext/pseuds/Miscellaneous_Subtext
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: Sherlock is the lead ballerina in his company, Doctor Watson is the company's rich new sponsor. They fall together easily, perfectly matched partners... But even perfect partners need practise and even then, not eveything goes to plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fascinating Dance

**Author's Note:**

> So this started as an idea off Tumblr I started months ago... I've finially finished... Took me long enough... Hope you enjoy... It's not real long... but still... enjoy... There is a bit of sex in here, but nothing graphic (not like my last one :D) But yea... ENJOY!!!

It’s quiet, it’s dark and that’s just the way he likes it. Because up here with the lights dimmed and the spot light on him, he can truly be himself. Here he’s all angles, and movement, the contrasts of light and dark. Here he isn’t too smart or too cruel, on this stage, when the music plays. This is him. He can look out into the audience, but all he can see is shadows, it feels like he’s alone, even if he can hear the soft voices of the people in his company. The voices are always hushed when he stands centre stage, because he’s the best dancer they have, they all come to watch him and to dance along side him. But right now, it’s not about them. Right now, it’s about Sherlock and this one chance to stop thinking of anything but the next step in the ballet that he’s waited his whole life to preform.

 

***

 

“Alright, alright, listen up!” Mycroft calls the company to order, clapping his hands sharply to catch their attention. Sherlock debates briefly whether or not it would be better to simply sneak out the back and have the cigarette he’s dying to have rather than listen to his brother and the company director drown on. He’s about to slip away when he sees a man step on the stage behind Mycroft. He’s dresses in an expensive suit, clearly once perfectly tailored except that he appears to have lost a bit of weight. The man has hazel eyes and sandy blonde hair that is cut neatly around his face. There are lines around his eyes and at the corners of his mouth, an indicator of some recent stress. But what fascinates Sherlock about this man is the way he holds himself. His back is straight, shoulders even and his hands clasped behind his back. It all indicates some form of training, military, but it’s that economy of movement, the straightness in his posture, the perfect lines of his body that draws Sherlock in. So he waits.

 

“I would like to introduce you all to Dr. Watson. As of today he is our new sponsor.” There was a small round of applause and Dr. Watson dipped his head a little in acknowledge. Sherlock followed the movement of the man’s neck and shoulders, the way they dipped gracefully with the movement, skin shifting over the firm muscles as they flexed.

 

“Fascinating…” Sherlock muttered under his breath, not expecting anyone to be close enough to hear him.

 

“Sorry, what was that Sherlock?” He glanced down to find Molly standing be him, hair pulled back in a tight pony tail and cherry chapstick smeared across her lips. The girl had a date, or at least wished to impress someone judging by the way she’s pinned her bangs back from her face.

 

“I was merely thinking out loud.” He informed her in an undertone, eyes going back to the man standing beside his brother. The thing about having your brother as the company director was that Sherlock knew when something was going on and he’d heard nothing about this new development. Dr. Watson’s arrival had been just as surprising to Sherlock as the rest of the company. Not that he was going to admit that. There were a few in the company that believed Sherlock had received his position as male lead in the company simply because Mycroft was his brother. Sherlock didn’t see the point in wasting his time explaining to those few that having Mycroft around actually made it significantly more difficult to keep his position. Especially when Mycroft was constantly pushing Sherlock to get a ‘real job’ as he so misguidedly called it. Mycroft only ran the company so he could keep an eye on Sherlock, the sooner Sherlock quit the sooner Mycroft would be free. But Sherlock had no intention of quitting so Mycroft stayed.

 

“Dr. Watson will be observing today so I encourage you all to assist him as best you can and put in your best effort today. If I see anyone slacking off…” Mycroft’s eyes find Sherlock, “They will suffer the consequences.” Mycroft’s tone is ominous, but Sherlock doesn’t fear him but he wouldn’t underestimate his brother. Mycroft doesn’t make idle threats. “Alright, back to work people.” Mycroft claps his hands again, a peevish twitch his brother had developed when he believed people weren’t moving as fast as they could. “Let’s take it from the top people, I want to see group B first.” Sherlock tuned out Mycroft’s voice, pushing it to the back of his mind so he could focus on Dr. Watson. The man had turned and was walking back down the stairs on Sherlock’s right. There was a large man at the foot of the stairs waiting for him, clearly a body guard from the way the man held himself and the fact that he was armed. Whether or not Mycroft had noticed or simply chosen to ignore it Sherlock could only speculate but it set him slightly on edge. Dr. Watson, not to mention his body guard, looked like the type to shoot anyone who threatened him or the people he cared for. It was interesting though. Practise would certainly be less boring with the Doctor around.

 

***

Smoke curled around him as he breathed out, the nicotine felt wonderful rushing through his nervous system.

 

“Should you really be smoking?” Sherlock turns to see Dr. Watson approaching, his body guard oddly absent from his normal position behind Dr. Watson’s right shoulder. This is the second week in a row that Dr. Watson has come to the company’s practises and rehearsals. Sherlock’s watched his every move, not that he moves far. He sits dead centre of the seventh row of seats, while his body guard paces the aisles. The guard’s presence seems to deter most of the company from getting too curious about the man. So aside from a few words exchanged here and there, Dr. Watson’s interactions are predominately with Mycroft. But that doesn’t mean that Sherlock hasn’t deduced a few things about him. An ex-military man, Dr. John Watson severed in Afghanistan before being shot in the leg. Occasionally Sherlock catches the man limping, but it’s not obvious unless you’re looking for it. The doctor made his fortune after returning home six years ago, risky investments and short term loads have made him a significant amount of money. Money that he clearly has no use for. Now as Dr. Watson approaches him, Sherlock can see the sadness in the man’s eyes and the deep shadows that circle his eyes.

 

“Breathing is boring; breathing is for those of us who intend to live to old age.” Sherlock informs him, not looking away from the older man. Sherlock has never been this close to him before; he’s actually surprised to find that Dr. Watson is shorter than he’d estimated.

 

“And clearly you don’t intent to live that long.” The doctor says as he stops close to Sherlock’s side.

 

“No…”

 

“Well…” Dr. Watson reaches up and grabs the cigarette from Sherlock’s long fingers and puts it to his lips, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly. “Neither do I.” He hands the cigarette back and Sherlock can feel himself smiling. They stand in silence a while, both leaning against the grey cement wall. Sherlock keeps his eyes on the doctor while Dr. Watson stares out into the parking lot, eyes fixed and unseeing.

 

“Escaping or hiding?” Sherlock finally asks.

 

“Pardon?” Dr. Watson asks, finally looking up at the young ballerina.

“Well, you aren’t here for a cigarette and your body guard is absent. So which is it? Are you hiding or escaping?”

 

“And how do you know I’m doing either? I could’ve come out here for some fresh air.” Sherlock feels his smile widen.

 

“Well for one, there are no tobacco stains on your fingers, you aren’t a regular smoker. The way your jacket moves suggests that there is nothing of significant weight in your pockets, which means no lighter or heavy cigarette case. Your mobile phone is in your interior, right hand pocket. You’re left handed, if you’d come out here for a phone call recently, it would be in your left hand pocket.” Sherlock shifts around and puts his hand in Dr. Watson’s right pocket, pulling away empty handed. “You are alone, which means you had to tell your guard that you would only be a few minutes. Otherwise he would not have felt you alone. A body guard always attracts attention, considering that you left him behind means you want to be more inconspicuous. The fact that you approached me suggests that you don’t really want to be alone. So I repeat, escaping or hiding?” Sherlock smiled, taking another drag from his cigarette.

 

“That is… brilliant.” Sherlock has to stop and look at Dr. Watson again just to check that he heard him right. He can’t help smiling a little at the doctor’s praise. “You are brilliant and I’m hiding. From your brother Mycroft, actually.” So maybe Sherlock isn’t the only one who’s paying attention. “Insufferable man,” Sherlock laughs, because ‘insufferable’ is a very mild word when describing Mycroft.

 

“Hiding from Mycroft, is my third greatest pleasure in life.” Sherlock informs Dr. Watson, dropping he’s cigarette butt and stubbing it out with his toe.

 

“What are the other two?” Dr. Watson smiles, it nice, a sweet smile mixed with a slight tension that suggests that Dr. Watson doesn’t smile very often anymore.

 

“Ah, Dr. Watson…” Sherlock chuckles pushing away from the wall.

 

“John… Call me John.” Sherlock nods, accepting the offer.

 

“I believe that would be obvious.”

 

“I don’t believe it is, we barely know one another, so enlighten me.” The doctor, John, straightens as well, tucking his hands behind his back. He stands there in the poise that Sherlock finds so fascinating and the young ballerina is unable to look away even if he’d wanted to.

 

“Puzzles for one… and ballet.” John’s smile’s again, this one a little wider than the last, and Sherlock finds himself mimicking it.

 

“Ah, now why didn’t I think of that?” It’s a rhetorical question but Sherlock can’t resist an answer.

“Because like many others, you simply aren’t as clever as I am.” The grin on Sherlock’s face now can only be described as roguish and John’s clearly intending to tease him when Mycroft and John’s guard appear from around the corner.

 

“Sherlock! Dr. Watson!” Mycroft smiles as he approaches.  “I hope my brother hasn’t been causing you any problems.”

 

“Of course not, Sherlock was merely proving his intelligence.” Sherlock can tell that John is teasing but Mycroft still gives him a dirty look over the doctor’s shoulder.

 

“Yes, well, he does do that.” Mycroft drops a hand onto John’s shoulder and Sherlock is momentarily surprised by the ripple of jealousy and protectiveness that washes over him at the gesture. “Come, I just have to oversee the last group and then if you’d care to join me, we can have a drink in my office?” Mycroft is leading them back towards the side door that leads to the back of the stage and the dressing rooms. Sherlock follows along behind, walking slower than the other three.

 

“No, I’m afraid I have other plans.” John informs Mycroft gentle, turning a little to smile at Sherlock over his shoulder. “A few puzzles to work on, perhaps another time.” There is a promise in John’s smile, one that’s reserved just for Sherlock. He has no idea what he’s done to earn such a smile from his company’s new sponsor but he’s eager to find out. Dr. John Watson, is a very interesting puzzle.

 

***

 

When rehearsals are over; Sherlock finds a black, sleek Mercedes waiting outside the back door. John’s body guard is standing beside it, hands folded in front of him. Sherlock doesn’t even get the chance to open his mouth before the man is opening the back door and gesturing for him to climb in. Sherlock’s not one to turn away from an adventure so he slides in. John’s sitting on the opposite side, an expression on his face that is half confusion and half fascination. Sherlock wonders which emotion is for him.

 

“Good evening, John.” Sherlock says, dropping his bag to the floor at his feet before straightening his scarf.

 

“Good evening, Sherlock. Care to join me for dinner?”

 

“I wouldn’t have gotten into the car if I hadn’t planned on joining you.” Sherlock replies like that should be obvious.

 

“Yes, but its polite to ask.”

 

“It’s unnecessary.” Sherlock replies before settling back in his seat. They’re quiet while John’s guard climbs in and starts the car, driving it carefully out of the parking lot. Eventually Sherlock’s eyes drift back to John, watching the light from the street lights glide over him. The light catches in his hair, making the lighter strands stand out and he’s eyes glow. His posture barely ever changes, Sherlock can sit still for hours but John seems to have mastered the ability to move without looking like he is. His shifting is so subtle that Sherlock has to watch

him carefully to see it.

 

“Is there a reason you’re staring at me?” Sherlock is a little startled by John’s voice; he was so busy watching John move that he hadn’t even noticed when the man’s attention had shifted to him. It’s a first for Sherlock and it annoys him that this man has caught him off guard.

 

“I’m trying to determine the cause of your stress.” Sherlock hears himself say and instantly knows it’s the wrong think to say. John tenses up, his subtly movement stopping and Sherlock is disappointed that he can’t watch the dance of John’s muscles under his clothes. John turns away and stares out the window, he doesn’t look back at Sherlock. He pulls his phone from his pocket and begins rotating it between his fingers, a nervous gesture or one of uncertainty and hesitation. “John?”

 

“What?” Finally he looks up and Sherlock can see the pain in his eyes, pain that can only be caused by a few things.

 

“Who?” John just shakes his head, he doesn’t need to ask, because John already gets that Sherlock is more than observant.

 

“My sister… She died last month… Liver failure… She drank…” John pauses, clearly illustrating his opinion of the habit. “There was nothing anyone could do…” He’s voice catches on the ‘anyone’, John blames himself, but Sherlock can tell that John did everything he could. He’s just that kind of man. Sherlock reaches out and places a hand over both of John’s, stilling the anxious movement of the phone between he’s fingers.

 

“It isn’t your fault,” That’s obvious but Sherlock doesn’t know how else to offer comfort and it’s even stranger than he wants to.

 

“I know…” John looks up and gives him a very weak smile, eyes slightly teary, Sherlock resists the urge to brush the damp from the older man’s eyes. John huffs, shifting in his seat and Sherlock pulls away, the tension broken. “She loved ballet when she was younger… Always wanted to be a ballerina, but then she stared drinking and well… So I figured if she couldn’t for fill her dream, I would do it for her.” John’s eyes flicker from the window back up to Sherlock. “At least, that’s what I’m doing. You’re doing the things she couldn’t.” Sherlock nods.

 

“I’m glad.” Sherlock smiles, because he is, glad that is. He likes John for some reason. “You are a very interesting man John Watson.”

 

“So are you, Sherlock Holmes.” And John’s not joking when he looks up at Sherlock, he mean’s every word and it makes Sherlock’s heart flutter in the strangest way.

 

***

 

“You’re not going to eat?” John asks, as he looks over his menu at Sherlock.

 

“I don’t eat when we’re this close to a performance, at least not more than once a day.” He tacks on at the end when he sees the doctors disapproving stare.

 

“That’s not very healthy.”

 

“Again, I don’t intend to live to old age, so I don’t believe it makes all that much difference.” John rolls his eyes but lets the subject drop as he orders the seared chicken. “Can you say with confidence that you feel differently? Does losing, not only, control of your limbs but access to your mind, seem appealing to you?” It’s a rhetorical question, of course but John gives him an answer anyway.

 

“No, I can’t say it does…” He takes a sip from his glass; it’s just water, John’s opinion about alcohol already having been established. Sherlock’s about to say more, to solidify his point but John interrupts. “But it’s not dying that bothers me- I’m a doctor and a solider, I have seen plenty of death- what bothers me, is dying with things unfinished.” Sherlock’s speechless for a minute because he didn’t expect that from John. He just doesn’t seem the type to worry about that kind of thing. He looks like the type who worries about his family and his friends, the people he leaves behind when he dies, not the things he’s left undone.

 

“You can only die trying.” Sherlock smiles at John across the table and John smiles back.

 

“That, we can definitely agree on.” It’s only one thing, one thing that they understand about each other and have in common, but it’s a start.

 

***

It seems a given that Sherlock goes home with John, because dinner could be nothing but a date. They’re been staring at each other for two weeks. They could pick each other out of crowd, simply by the sound of their voices and the way they move. Because movement is something else they have in common and that becomes clear the moment they stumble through John’s door.

John’s hands are clenched in Sherlock’s hair, pulling him down so their lips can meet in a desperate kiss. It’s hot and dirty and perfect. Sherlock allows himself to be dragged by John, arms wrapped around the smaller man’s neck. John is warm, solid and strong next to the fragile, lightness that is Sherlock. He’s like a bird caught in the clutches of a leopard. But really, Sherlock doesn’t mind getting eaten. Not if it’s John, not if it’s this beautiful, fascinating man that just seems to understand.  He allows himself to be pulled deep into John’s house, almost more like a mansion that just a house. When John spins them both and shoves Sherlock onto his bed the ballerina can’t help but gasp before John’s lips find his again. Clothes are thrown aside, being lost in the dark but neither of them cares. They’re both desperate to be naked, to lie flush against each other, skin to skin. John moves down, sucking on Sherlock’s neck, bruising pale flesh. Sherlock just moans, titling his head further back to expose more of his throat to John’s questing mouth.

 

“Please John,” It’s a request, because Sherlock doesn’t beg. It’s not something he can do and John’s not asking him to.

 

“Of course,” John reaches across the bed, finding the bedside table with his hands. Sherlock hears the draw slid open and then John’s back, a condom and lube in his hand.

 

***

 

The next day Sherlock is delightfully sore. His body aches in the best ways, ways that only come from mastering a new dance after hours of practise or terrific sex.

He leaves John’s house alone the next morning, kissing John softly as he climbs out of bed, refusing John’s car and taking a taxi instead. He arrives late to rehearsal but Sherlock ignores Mycroft’s glare and then the widening of his brothers eyes when he notices the hickey’s John left on his younger brother’s neck last night. The whole company whispers behind his back, even Molly who is normally on his side. She has a new boyfriend, if the carefully applied make-up is any indication. But Sherlock only notices that in passing, he’s quite happy to think about John. He’s day only gets better when John shows up to observe again. Sherlock can feel the man’s eyes on him, so hot and concentrated that Sherlock swears his flesh is burning. When rehearsal is over they slip into the back of John’s car. They don’t go out that night, just fall into bed, limbs tangled together. They were born to dance this dance together.

 

***

 

“Sherlock?” Sherlock stops at the sound of his brother’s voice, his body stiffening as his teeth clench. He doesn’t want to talk about John with Mycroft, but there is no way to escape. And he knows this is about John and more specifically, about him sleeping with John. Ah John, such a beautiful man. So strong and energetic, the man’s in his prime. He pleases Sherlock in more ways than anyone else ever has. Just the way he moves, the way his strong, dexterous fingers find all of Sherlock’s most sensitive areas.  John can read Sherlock like an open book, no one else has ever managed that. He knows when Sherlock’s about to come, knows when he needs a little more or is to sensitive or…

 

“Sherlock!” He shakes his head, shouldn’t be thinking about this when Mycroft is clearly waiting for him.

 

“Yes, Mycroft?” He sounds like his being polite, but Mycroft will be able to detect the undertone of ice in Sherlock’s voice, considering how often he uses it on Mycroft.

 

“A word please?” He gestures to his office. “In private.” Sherlock merely sighs and follows Mycroft inside, sitting down in front of Mycroft’s desk while he waits for the man to close the door.

 

“What do you want?” The fake politeness drops from Sherlock’s voice.

 

“What are your intentions towards Dr Watson?” No pretence, no questions asked for clarification, not that Sherlock expected any, at least not from Mycroft.

 

“We are merely enjoying each other’s company,” Loudly, intensely and behind closed doors, Sherlock adds mentally.

 

“I don’t care what you call it Sherlock, you will stop…” Sherlock opens his mouth to protest but Mycroft holds up a hand and speaks over him, loudly. “You will stop! He is the SPONSOR of this company and I will not have you jeopardise that!”

 

“I am not doing anything of the sort,” Sherlock retorts sharply. Mycroft continues like Sherlock didn’t speak.

 

“If you do not cease your relationship with Dr Watson, I will give your solo to Jim.” Sherlock can feel himself tense and pale. Jim Moriarty has always hated Sherlock, a man of almost equal talent, he could get the lead with any other company, yet he remains here, forever in Sherlock’s shadow. He does everything in his power to get rid of Sherlock; Sherlock had thwarted him on many occasions. Mycroft doesn’t know the extent of Sherlock and Jim’s revelry but he knows how much Sherlock hates the man, he’s hit a nerve. “Good,” Mycroft finally says after he’s given Sherlock the chance to process his words. “I expect rehearsal to receive your full attention from tomorrow onwards.” He pats Sherlock’s shoulder in a false show of affection as he leaves.

 

“Fuck,” Sherlock grits out venomously when the door closes behind Mycroft. It’s a choice, Mycroft has left him with a choice, John or Ballet…

 

***

 

The day moves slowly, not even John’s appearance can pull Sherlock from his deep melancholy. He’s trying to find another way, a way that ensures he keeps his solo and gets to stay with John. It doesn’t seem right that he has to choice. Maybe he can ask John to wait. He can see it now, the kind look on John’s face as he explains Mycroft’s threat. The look that changes to anger, the curses John will use to describe Mycroft. John will want to talk to Mycroft, explain, but it won’t get them anywhere, Mycroft has stated his position and if Sherlock have one thing in common it’s their stubbornness. No, Sherlock must solve this alone, that means he has to choice. It’s not a fair choice, Mycroft doesn’t realise what he’s asking. Sherlock has become attached, something that has never happened before, he’s become attached to a person. A person that actually likes him, understands him, tolerates even his worst habits and moods. John is a saint and Sherlock will have to give him up. The thought makes his chest ache.

 

When rehearsals are over, Sherlock hangs back, taking his time. He hasn’t spoken to John all day, doesn’t even know what he’d say, let alone how he’s going to explain letting the man go. He doesn’t want to let go at all, how can he tell John that? It’s not fair, but life’s not fair, Sherlock knows that but it still seems to great pleasure in being exceptionally cruel to him.

 

“Sherlock?” Sherlock’s head snaps up from where he’s tying the laces of his boots. John’s standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets, standing framed in the dark doorway. He’s beautiful, face highlighted by the strong light of the room. It smooths out some of the lines on his face, making him look young and innocent. The wide blue eyes don’t help the imagine nor does the slight smile on his lips. Shit. “I was looking for you, ready to go?” He takes a step forward and Sherlock’s heart squeezes painfully, John doesn’t suspect a thing. Pure, innocent, angelic John, Sherlock hates every inch of Mycroft.

 

“I’ll be with you in a moment.” Sherlock pulls himself to his feet, all fluid movement that has John’s eyes sweeping up and down Sherlock’s body. It makes him shudder, how can he do this when John makes him feel so… so alive?

 

“Alright,” John leans against the doorframe, eyes still fixed on Sherlock as the ballerina bends over to pick up his back. He feels awkward and oddly vulnerable bent over like this despite the amount of times John has taken him in similar positions. Sherlock shudders again, swallowing the lump in his throat. When he stands again he strides across the room, coming to stand right in front of the doctor, his doctor.

 

“Will you come with me?” Sherlock holds out his hand, waiting for John to take it. Some of his sadness must seep into his face and eyes because John frowns in concern.

 

“What’s wrong Sherlock?” Sherlock just shakes his head.

 

“Please?” This is begging, something Sherlock has never done before, but he’s surprised how easily it comes when it’s John.

 

“Anything,” John places his warm, rough, dry hand in Sherlock’s letting the ballerina lead him down dark halls and out to the stage. He says nothing, so trusting, John has so much belief in Sherlock and that cuts Sherlock more deeply than anything because he doesn’t deserve such trust. They climb up the back steps to the stage and Sherlock leads John right to the middle of the stage. It’s dark, the only lights coming from the side lights, just bright enough to see the stage and the steps around the seats. Sherlock takes both of John’s hands and pulls him close, pulling him into a small circle. They spin together slowly, hands tracing over clothes as Sherlock draws the smaller man closer.

 

“What are we doing?” John whispers; breathe warm as he tilts his head up to speak against Sherlock’s lips.

 

“We, my dear John, are dancing.” John smiles and laughs a little before Sherlock spins him out, yanking him back in. John smacks into his chest, arms going around Sherlock’s waist and holding him close.

 

“I’m a poor dancer,” Sherlock scoffs at his lover.

 

“You are a marvellous dancer John; I find the way you move absolutely captivating.” John smiles and gives Sherlock’s lips a soft peak.

 

“And you are the most stunningly beautiful creature in the world,” John kisses him more forcefully, hands sliding up the back of Sherlock’s shirt, before pulling away and pulling the taller man shirt off. “But you’re a terrible liar.”

 

“I’m offended John, I do not lie.” Sherlock replies in mock offended tone.

 

“Of course you don’t…” John pulls him down then, tongue parting Sherlock’s lips in a rough kiss. The slide slowly to the floor, John on top, slowly slipping Sherlock’s pants off and tossing them aside. When Sherlock lifts his legs to wrap them around John’s waist the older man rocks his hips, pressing his erection to Sherlock’s ass. Sherlock groans into the kiss, gasping when John reaches down between them. His hand glides over the ballerina’s erection and the heat of the touch has Sherlock arching up, which is just what John wants. A firm finger circles his entrance, before pressing slowly in. It’s dry and rough, but Sherlock wiggles into the touch anyway. “You’re stunning… Fantastic… Amazing.” John whispers into Sherlock’s mouth, little endearments that Sherlock can’t help but shudder at. No one has ever been so kind to him, no one has ever accepted, let alone loved, everything that Sherlock is. But John does, this beautiful, damaged doctor loves him and Sherlock can’t bring himself to be afraid of everything that means. Because he loves John too. When John pulls an unopened bottle of lube from his pocket Sherlock takes it and squeezes a generous amount of John’s fingers. His head falls back as John presses two fingers deep into him. It’s amazing, making love right here in the middle of the stage, lights dimmed. This is Sherlock’s place, the place where only he can exist and yet here John is, lips pressed to Sherlock’s, fingers sending stroking fire through his veins.

 

“I love you…” Sherlock moans as John pushes into him. The doctors pants are pushed to his knees, but still he’s mostly dress, unlike Sherlock, who is naked and exposed beneath him. It’s a surrender of sorts, but one Sherlock is happy to give because here, in this place, he can have anything he wants. Here he can be himself and John is something he wants just for himself. Sherlock hasn’t wanted anything in a long time.

 

“I love you too…” John whispers into his ear and Sherlock can’t help if a few tears slide down his cheeks.

 

***

 

It’s in the haze of warmth a peace that Sherlock finally broaches the topic.

 

“John?”

 

“Hmmm?” John sounds relaxed, sleepy, with his head on his rumbled jacket and Sherlock’s head pressed over his heart. Sherlock hates to destroy this moment, but he has to, its John or ballet and without ballet Sherlock’s not sure where his place is.

 

“I think we should stop seeing each other,” And just like that the words are out and John’s stiffening all over. He sits up, Sherlock sits up, his comfortable place on John’s chest disturbed, taken away just like John soon will be. Taken away by Mycroft and Sherlock’s own willingness to give up John but not ballet.

 

“What?” John looks defeated, he knows exactly what Sherlock’s saying, knows what it all means but he clearly can’t come up with a reason. “Dear god…” His soul is in his eyes, “Why? Sherlock… Why?” He sounds so broken, Sherlock imagines he’s sound just as distraught if their positions where reversed. They just confessed their love for one another, had terrific sex and now Sherlock is breaking up with him. John has a right to feel confused, or at least that’s what Sherlock tells himself. John shouldn’t fight for him; deny him the right to leave him. But dear god, if he doesn’t want John to fight for him.

 

“I… I have always been married to my work, my art… Ballet is my life John. You are a distraction. This performance may be my last. I am old by the standards of ballerina’s; I need to give it my full attention.”  John looks disbelieving, and he should, it’s a lie, it’s all a lie. Please John, see it for what it is, Sherlock pleads in his mind.

 

“But…” John stutters, looking hurt and vulnerable, the way Sherlock felt earlier in dressing room. “But…” He

pushes himself away from Sherlock, stands and begins pulling on his clothes. “Ok,” He doesn’t look at Sherlock, just pulls on his clothes. “If that’s what you want?” It’s definitely a question, even though John refuses to look at him.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock chokes on the words but keeps talking even though John’s clearly not listening any more. “That is… That is what I want.” The words trail off, so soft the words are almost inaudible. John’s dressed now, he straightens his jacket and tucks his hands in him pockets.

 

“Bye Sherlock…” Then he’s gone, disappearing into the dark theatre and Sherlock has never hated this place until this moment.

 

***

 

“Sherlock!” The young ballerina’s head snaps up at the sound of his brother’s voice. He’s stretching, at least he’s supposed to be, but he’s kind of distracted. Thoughts of John and last night keep appearing in his mind, blocking everything else out. They were here last night, the made love on this stage, they’ve claimed it, marked this space as theirs and yet no one else sees the difference. “Sherlock!” Sherlock looks up to find Mycroft standing over him, arms folded across his chest and a frown on his face. “Will you be joining us anytime soon or have we become such a bore to you that you don’t even feel the need to be on your feet?” Sherlock glares up Mycroft, this is the man that forced him to break up with John. This is the man who’s taking the joy of the stage away. God, how Sherlock loathes him.

 

“No Mycroft,” Sherlock stands slowly, coming to stand over Mycroft. He’s thinner than Mycroft, fair thinner, but he’s taller than Mycroft, has been since he was sixteen. He uses his full height now. “I find ‘you’ a bore.” Sherlock throws as much venom into the words as possible; he wants Mycroft to hurt as much as he is.

 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft growls but Sherlock ignores him, speaking softly so that only Mycroft can hear him.

 

“No Mycroft, this is your fault. You made me choice and I will never forgive you.” Mycroft looks taken aback, his mouth hanging open like a fish. Sherlock turns away, ignoring his brother, furious, hurt, he can’t do this today. He grabs his bag and sets it on his shoulder, ignoring the stares from the other people in the company, ignoring Mycroft who’s still standing shock still. “I’ll be back tomorrow.” It’s an admission of defeat, Sherlock’s given up John but he’s not giving up ballet. This is the first time that it’s ever hurt to sacrifice something for ballet.

 

***

 

Sherlock practises until late the next day, no one talks so him, no one gets in his way. He throws his body into practise, rehearsal, letting the music fill him, letting his body take over when he’s mind can’t. But every time he stops he looks out to the empty seats and his heart clenches. It isn’t supposed to be this way, it’s not fair… John, where is he? What is he thinking? It drives Sherlock crazy, he pushed John away, he regrets it, regrets it like nothing else. This isn’t the way it was supposed to go, Sherlock never wanted to regret anything, but he can’t help regretting this.

 

***

It’s the night of the show, Sherlock’s tired, he aches, but he’s ready. Ready for this, ready for this performance that he’s been waiting so long for. It’s also his last night, this is his dream performance, he has the part he’s wanted to dance since he first realised he wanted to be a ballerina. Everything is ready, tonight is his last night. Because he has something else he wants now, someone, someone who is more important than all the dances he’s ever wanted to dance. John… But he puts all that from his mind, steels himself, this night is about him. He dances like he’s never danced before, powerful, beautiful. He’s never danced better. He can feel the solo coming, his solo, the one where he’ll stand in the spot light, surrounded by his company, music swelling, band below, audience stretched out before him. It’s perfect; it’s the best thing ever. Right up until he hears the scream, Molly’s scream, a sharp rips down his side, then everything goes truly black.

 

***

 

It’s cold when he makes up, he tries to move, to open his eyes, but it’s like his limbs weigh a tonne. He hears a groan and it takes him a moment to realise that it’s his own. There’s also a soft, repetitive beeping sound and the smell of bleach. Hospital… Fear runs through him and the beeping speeds up.

 

“Sherlock?” Mycroft, the voice in familiar, he’d know it anywhere and the angry that rages through him gives him enough strength to open his eyes. “Hello Sherlock…” The man’s standing at the end of the bed, he looks tired but his suit is neat and he holds his umbrella in one hand, leaning against it.

 

“Wh-” Sherlock chokes on the sound, coughs to clear his throat, swallows three times. “What happened?”

 

“Jim Moriarty…” The name sent another flare of anger through Sherlock. “He arranged to have one of the lights fall on you during your solo. I don’t think he expected me to catch him. He is being… dealt with.” Sherlock tuned out half way through Mycroft’s explanation though, his attention is focused on his left leg. It’s in a huge cage, pins sticking out of his skin. All the implications of this flicker through his mind. He’ll never dance, likely never run or walk probably ever again. He’ll need therapy. Doctors, trips to the hospital… He’ll never DANCE… That thought shatters him, he was going to give it up; he was going to give it up… Give it up for John… John, his handsome doctor.

 

“Get out…” Sherlock cuts off whatever Mycroft was saying, he doesn’t care.

 

“What? Don’t be ridiculous Sherlock, you just woke up, I was worried.” Mycroft says it like it should be obvious, but Sherlock hates him.

 

“Get out!” When Mycroft just stares at him Sherlock raises his voice. “GET OUT! Get out! Get out, you rotten bastard! GET OUT!” He’s sure the whole hospital can hear him, he can hear the sounds of running steps and voices. Mycroft looks struck dumb. Good, he disserves it. His stupid brother, doesn’t even deserve to be called that. Sherlock gave up John, gave up John for one last dance. Now he can’t even do that. There is no way John will take him back now. Not now that he’s crimple, when he can’t move or dance. He’s going to be ugly, not like John, not like straight-backed, gracefully John. Sherlock can feel the tears in his eyes as the nurses rush in and shoo Mycroft out. He’s still yelling, screaming, inarticulate as someone presses a needle to his arm. His body goes limp first, then he’s eyes close and the last word from his lips is…

 

“John…”

 

***

Three Years Later

 

Sherlock watches Molly as she does a graceful turn. Her dancing has improved since Sherlock took over the company. He still refuses to talk to Mycroft, sent his brother off with the strict instructions never to speak to him or see him ever again. His leg has healed, the doctor’s had been surprised, but then Sherlock had done everything in his power to mend it. He doesn’t dance as well now, can’t hold it as long, but he can. The muscles in his leg ache afterwards and when it rains, which is most of the time. But it was worth the recovery time and all the trips to the doctor, even if he was tempted to throw things at a few of them along the way. But he’s still doing what he loves and its better than nothing.

 

“Sherlock?” That voice is very familiar and for a moment Sherlock thinks his hearing things, he’s thought about that voice calling his name for the last three years. Dreamed about it so many times that it can’t possible real now. He turns his head slowly. Standing right in front of the stage is a figure he remembers well, he mapped that body quite a few times in their short acquaintance.

 

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock’s voice is soft, yet not giving away the frantic beating of his heart. He still stands so straight, but Sherlock can see the slight shift of his weight, even after all this time, Sherlock knows this man.

 

“Mycroft told me,” Typical. Interfering bastard, trying to buy his way back into Sherlock’s favour, or at least ease a little of the hatred. Sherlock’s not sure he’s ready to forgive Mycroft, or even this beautiful man.

 

“It’s been three years…” It’s not a reprimand, but a statement and right now, it doesn’t seem all that long.

 

“I know, I’m sorry.” Sherlock feels his lips twitch into a smile, because there is nothing else to stay. Sherlock was never angry with him to begin with. Sherlock jumps down from the stage, limping slightly as he crosses the space between them. He wraps his arms around John like he will never let go and he probably won’t.

 

“Now we match…” Sherlock purrs into the smaller man’s ear. Their lips meet and Sherlock whispers one more word into his beautiful doctor’s mouth before falling into the kiss.

 

“John…”  


End file.
